the losing side of history
by jadeddiva
Summary: Killian Jones, and the night after Emma lets the darkness take her.


**the losing side of history**

The first night without her is the hardest.

It's not like they've spent the night together, though, and that's something that he keeps in mind as he walks back to his ship, each step heavier than the last, his mind replaying the final moments before the darkness consumed her over and over. They've never had the opportunity – her parents, or her son, or the constant evil that's drawn to this place like moths to a flame constantly intervening time and time again.

And yet, her absence is felt (he always feels her absence, always wants to feel her warmth before falling asleep, to wake up with her pressed against him but this is different).

And yet, this is different than all the times before, when his last thoughts were of her and the smile she would give him as they parted for the night. He had hoped (one day) he would convince her to be here with him – to stay, like he knew she wanted to: she would always speak her regrets against his lips before she left him, always with a sigh, saying _I need to get my own place_ over and over again until he was almost tempted to say it back to her, but held his tongue (it was up for her to decide how this progressed as much as it was him).

This time, he knows he will not see her in the morning, or feel the warmth of her palm against his.

This time, he fears that when he sees her again, she will no longer be the Emma he loves, but something unrecognizable instead.

(Tonight, he fears he will not rest easy.)

…

His hand is on her hip, urging her forward as her hands grip his head, fingertips pressing into his scalp. Her lips are as urgent as her hips as they meet his, moving against each other, and until he tilts his head back and hits against the car window, Killian can forget that they are in the backseat of her vehicle.

Emma likes to go on long drives around town and often into the woods beyond, and he always accompanies her (he appreciates her restlessness, knows the unease of being in a place for so long that you begin to plant roots).

He's learned a bit about transportation in this world. Emma explain as best she can the way that cars work, propelled forward by gasoline and engines which he finds fascinating (she promises to show him a ship run on these machines, and he is quite excited by the prospect).

On their first drive, Emma stopped her car at a secluded clearing in the woods and climbed into the backseat, encouraging him to join her. He hesitated at first – it looked cramped and uncomfortable – but the temptation of being so close to Emma was too great, and so he took off his hook (never good in tight spaces unless there's fighting involved) and joined her.

And that was how he learned about parking, when couples go off in their own and spend time in their cars – something usually done during adolescence, but he's never felt more inclined to act juvenile then when Emma's pressed intimately against him, her breath hot against his neck, her hips arching up into his own teasingly.

This time, she's drawing his hand towards the button of her pants, and even if it's a tight fit, he still manages to slip in, to find that bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs and to press, and she bucks against him, fingers griping his hair and pulling his head back so her mouth can find his neck (she knows his weaknesses, his love, and she enjoys exploiting them for mutual gain).

She drags her teeth along his earlobe, sucks against the flesh below his ear before letting go of his head and reaching for his own trousers, hands slipping inside to find him more than ready (this is the extent of what they do, and he doesn't push, because there have been more times than he can count where their intimacy has been interrupted by one emergency or another).

There is nothing but the sound of heavy breathing, the focused movement of hands and lips, before Emma tenses, legs shaking before letting out a soft cry, which his kisses muffle before he follows her.

There are moments afterwards that he commits to memory: the way that she turns them to their sides and wraps her arms around him; the way that her fingers always play with the hem of his shirt until she can press them against the small of his back, stroking slow circles against his skin; the way that she seems lighter after these interludes, happy in her sated state, more beautiful in the way that she tells him things about her that she normally wouldn't (memories, good and bad, and he does the same).

There is something in this intimacy of shared stories that seems like the natural progression of all that has been happening with them, from the hand-holding to the embraces and everything in between. And, even as Emma's communication device crackles and the dulcet tones of David's voice fill the small space, there's something about the moment, and what exists between the two of them, that Killian cannot ignore.

…

After several hours it becomes apparent that sleep will not visit him so he gets up, dresses for the day, and decides that the fresh air is what he needs.

As he slips on a shirt – a particular shade of blue that Killian knows Emma is quite fond of – he thinks about buying the clothing and a single rose, and waiting on her parents' doorstep to see her. That memory is tainted with the Crocodile's deceit, but that does not make it any less powerful, the thought of her choosing him (he can remember the feeling of being whole, the press of his hand against the small of her back, the touch of his fingers in her hair –

The wind is bracing as he emerges above deck and he misses his old coat, the heavy layers that protected him against sea and storm and, on one occasion, the blow of a sword. He traded it in for the clothing of this realm – the clothes that Emma seems to admire, though they feel strange on his skin.

He has taken himself apart for her, discarding vestiges of who he is in an effort to become the man she believes him to be – the man he knows he was once, and could be again (but the title _hero_ fits as uneasily as the new clothes and he wonders if he is really play-acting, pretending to be someone that he has lost in an effort to be loved).

The town is silent, the air foreboding as he steps off his ship and onto the dock. It is not yet morning but small tendrils of dawn creep across the slowly-brightening sky. Killian flips the collar of his coat up, and heads into town.

…

He's always admired her stubbornness, but this is too much even for him.

She has told him, not for the first time, that she will return to New York once Zelena is defeated, and he struggles to maintain composures, struggles to focus on what matters.

"Your life there was a lie," he says, but what he wants to say is _you never really loved him._

"You have family here," he says, but what he wants to say is _you have me – am I not enough?_

(He already knows the answer to that, and he tries not to let it bother him.)

He has crossed realms for her, given up his ship and yet he holds his tongue even as the truth threatens to slip free (if he tells her, she will feel like she owes him a debt, and he does not need restitution for his actions).

Even as he grows silent, she grows bolder – insisting that it is the right thing to do for the sake of the boy even if it's running away in the face of her destiny. It comes as no surprise that even like this, cheeks flushed from the cold and eyes squinting in anger, that he loves her still.

It has been exquisite torture, being so close to her and keeping the truth buried deep inside, especially as she calls to him, desiring him to come with her on some fool's errand or another as they seek out the wicked witch. He has never refused, because just being with her is enough to make his heart sing and his blood race and his weary bones feel light for the first time in a long while (how funny she speaks of finding her home when he already knows where his is).

Emma turns away, cheeks blazing and frustration clear in the angle of her shoulders, the clench of her fists – at him, or at the wicked witch, he does not know.

All he knows is that it is worth it to see such a sight after the long days without her, and he will bear that anger and frustration if it means that he has brought her home.

…

The streets are silent but the air feels heavy as he walks them, his shoes the only sound in the early hours.

Killian does not know where to go, or who to see. He contemplates the Charmings, but thinks no, not after that display with the dagger (he does not fit with them, not quite yet, not without Emma, and even though he knows they are not sleeping it is still too early to intrude).

As he walks through the town it occurs to him that for all the time he's spent with her – as much as she is his home, his happy ending – he cannot say the same for Storybrooke (he has mentioned getting on his ship and sailing off into the sunset and she has laughed at him, elbowed him in the ribs, and told him _some day_ ). Without Emma here he feels naked and vulnerable, alone and aware that just because one person thinks him reformed doesn't mean that the others don't find him to be a pirate, or more villainous than not.

His feet take him back to the center of town, where he lost Emma to the darkness, where his attempts to summon her back ended in vain (he can still feel the weight of the dagger in his hands, can still see the gleam of the street lights against the steel, against her name - )

He has not lost her.

He can't have lost her.

There must be another way to find her again.

…

His lips burn but not from drink, and he licks them once, twice (he tastes her, salt and sweat and spice and he hungers for more).

Killian has always loved a challenge, and ever since Emma Swan held a dagger to his throat, a challenge is what he got: from beanstalk and giants to Neverland, there's been no dull moments between them, and he thinks he likes it this way. She is always up for a fight despite her protestations to the contrary, and she doesn't back down, and as such, she is like no one he has ever known before (not even his love Milah can hold a candle to the spirit in the lass).

But it's more than that, and he knows it, as he steps back from the clearing, heads deeper into the jungle. The air is hot and heavy around him and he can barely breath, heart still racing, limbs still shaking.

He had not meant to kiss her – not at first, but a better man would have ignored the bait, would have not provoked (but they all know he is the worst sort of man, a pirate and a scoundrel). But denying that he wanted to kiss her, wants to kiss her still, wants to bury his hand in her hair and brush his fingers against her soft skin – that is fast becoming the problem.

Before their lips touched, this was a minor flirtation – no more than a wench in a tavern, just a sport to pass the time ( _so what if he felt something like kinship, so what if he understood what she was running from…)_

Now, he burns from the inside out. Now, everything is brighter than it's been in centuries. Now, the pain has subsided, and something else is taking hold.

It is familiar, and yet not, and as he lets it linger inside of his chest, he hears her laugh through the thick jungle air, and his breath catches in his throat.

He is in trouble when it comes to Emma Swan, and he damned well figure out what to do about it.


End file.
